Taliesin in Love
by adaon45
Summary: More about the love story of Adaon's parents, Taliesin and Cerys.
1. Bardic Exams

_The Usual Disclaimer: This world isn't mine, but oh, I love to play there!_

Taliesin in Love

Chapter 1: Bardic Exams

The vast, high-ceilinged chamber in the Hall of Lore at Caer Dathyl, stronghold of the royal family of Prydain, was calculated to inspire visitors with awe, if not wholesome fear. After all, those entering its portals to take their bardic examinations should not assume the road to initiation would be easy. Thus, while the library nearby was inviting, a booklover's dream piled to the rafters with volumes, by contrast this room was austere, lit mainly by torches along the stone walls. On this spring day, as was common when an examination was about to take place, the entire Council of Bards was ranged in a half-circle facing, and seriously outnumbering, the would-be initiate. While all this was as usual, though, what was unusual was the sex of the candidate requesting admission to the bardic ranks. Standing before the all-male conclave was a young woman, brown hair trained severely from her face in a long braid. While it was possible for women to become bards in Prydain, it had become unusual. Since Arawn Death-Lord had stolen the secrets of artisans, many of them women, the status of the female part of the population had declined. Few women were as educated as they needed to be to achieve initiation, and those who were confronted disabling prejudices against their intellectual abilities. It had thus been a long while since the Bardic Council had tested the worth of a female aspirant.

Cerys Daughter of Ceindeg usually did not like wearing a skirt, but today her robe provided benefits not afforded by male attire. She was able surreptitiously to wipe clammy palms on the folds of her gray dress, and moreover the gown concealed her trembling knees. Such concealment proved the more useful since, whenever Cerys looked at the bard sitting directly in front of her, rather than simply shaking her knees turned to water. Few who stood where she did now were not awed to see in the flesh the legendary Chief Bard. Like many in Prydain, from childhood Cerys had listened enthralled to tales of Taliesin, renowned for his heroic deeds and achievements as poet and composer. Sitting today in a throne-like chair at the center of the council, Taliesin's rank was signalled by his robes, which were not the dazzling white worn by the others but a rich kingly purple. Flowing straight to his shoulders, his silver mane framed a clean-shaven face that, while lined, seemed still youthful. Cerys, who had pictured Taliesin as ancient and white-bearded as some of his colleagues, had not thought to find a man middle-aged and still vital. To her surprise, too, while the Chief Bard radiated an almost palpable air of authority, he was not intimidating. He gazed benignly at Cerys, lips curved in an encouraging smile.

It was, in fact, Taliesin who asked many of the questions the bardic council posed to Cerys over the next few hours. Talking to him eased her nerves, and she sometimes even forgot she was surrounded by watchful faces. Certainly the council kept her busy. She answered countless queries about ancient lore and history. She translated runes and samples of other arcane languages. Finally, she took up her harp to play the song with which candidates traditionally ended their performance. Her nerves reasserting themselves, Cerys fervently hoped her damp hands would not slip on the strings. As she raised the instrument to her shoulder, she caught Taliesin's eye and could swear he gave her the hint of a wink. Cheered, Cerys bent her head over the harp, closing her eyes as she did so. At such times she felt as one with the music she played, and, indeed, as the voices of woman and instrument soared in the lofty hall, each seemed to listeners indistinguishable from the other. The song Cerys played was of her own composition, the plaint of a queen, a figure from ancient legend, mourning her slain lover. Typically Cerys had refused to make the woman of her song into a weepy, passive female. Instead, in its ache of longing the queen's lament captured the full range of human love and loss. As the last chords vibrated on the air Cerys gingerly opened her eyes. Apprehensive of her auditors' reaction, she could not at once look at Taliesin and so peeked first at the bards sitting on the far side of the table. As her eyes moved toward the center of the room, she saw that the men looked stupefied, several blinking as if awaking from a trance. One mopped his eyes with his white sleeve. When Cerys's gaze finally reached the Chief Bard she thought for a horrified instant she had put him to sleep. Taliesin's silver head rested against the back of his chair, his eyes closed. To her relief, however, Cerys realized he had not been sleeping but shutting out his surroundings in order to concentrate on the music. He reminded her of a man at the rail of a swift-moving ship, his head thrown back against the cleansing wind and drinking in its clear, intoxicating wine. As she looked he opened his eyes, a smile warm as the sun illuminating his face.

"Whose composition was that?" he asked curiously. "I do not recognize it."

"Sir, it is my own," Cerys answered. The aged bard to Taliesin's right—the only person relatively unmoved by the song—leaned over to whisper something in Taliesin's ear. The Chief Bard frowned slightly, then quietly spoke a few words in response. Looking grumpy, the older bard slumped back in his seat. Taliesin turned to Cerys.

"We have, I believe, taxed you as much as is necessary. Perhaps you would step outside this chamber while the council and I confer?"

It was good of him, thought Cerys, that he did not tell her to go relax. Surely he knew that rest of any kind would be impossible. Indeed, Cerys could not stop pacing the hall outside the chamber like a wild creature caught in a cage. Had she answered the question about that one legend in sufficient detail, listing all of its sources and variations? Had she made an error in the second rune translation? And what had that all been about, anyway, when the grouchy old bard had muttered to Taliesin after her song? Still, Cerys realized that she could not worry too much. There had not been any obvious holes in her knowledge, and, as for the aged bard, Taliesin had not seemed to take him very seriously. Cerys knew that it would be difficult to overcome the prejudices about women's intellectual inferiority surely subscribed to by at least some of the bards. But, remembering that encouraging wink, Cerys felt certain Taliesin was on her side. She would be gravely mistaken were it otherwise.

He heard about her before she even arrived. A famous bard, a friend of Taliesin's, had written to the Chief Bard raving about the abilities of the brilliant young woman he was tutoring. The now-orphaned daughter of an ancient family, she had received an astonishing education and had continued teaching herself after her parents died within several years of each other. Hearing of the remarkable female prodigy, Taliesin's friend went to check out the truth of the rumors. Though initially skeptical, after hearing the young woman sing and assessing the range of her knowledge he begged to help her achieve her goal of preparing for the bardic exams. Taliesin was of course curious to meet this promising new prospect. Usually such extravagant praise would have seemed suspect, but his friend was a crusty sort not given to frothy encomiums. Personally Taliesin was glad a woman was finally presenting herself for initiation, as for too long the Council—and the world of bards more generally—had been a male preserve. Things were getting too boringly one-sided in the artistic sphere, Taliesin felt. And it was simply not fair to lack female representation in a profession that had long ago included many noted women.

He'd been pleased that Cerys had appeared poised as she entered the hall for her exams. It was not uncommon for candidates to turn green as leeks once they caught sight of the mass of waiting bards. In Taliesin's experience, several aspirants had hastily exited the room to puke. If he remembered correctly one poor fellow had not even made it out the door. Firmly pushing that unpleasant memory to the back of his mind, he fixed his attention on Cerys. He was delighted to discover that she was every bit as brilliant as his friend had said, if not more so. As she spoke about the world of the mind her hands gestured like birds about to take flight, a red spot of excitement appearing in each cheek. It was refreshing to meet someone so clearly in love with books. A number of Taliesin's colleagues had lost their original zest for knowledge, becoming pedantically fixed on arcane points rather than on larger questions or theories. Cerys's enthusiasm reminded him of his own, still strong after many years of poring over antique volumes and pursuing arduous scholarly trails.

He was expecting she'd be a wondrous musician, but he had not anticipated how much her song would move him. Indeed, while listening his spirit seemed to travel far beyond the torchlit hall, as if suspended in a realm of purest beauty and feeling. He'd been quite annoyed when one of his more hidebound colleagues, presumably searching for a pretense to mark down Cerys's exam, questioned whether candidates were allowed to sing their own songs rather than those enshrined by custom. Willing himself to remain calm, Taliesin pointed out—as he was sure his colleague knew—that there was no prohibition against performing original work. In any event, none of the other bards had the slightest objection to passing Cerys with the highest honors. Performing the ancient rite of initiation and draping Cerys with a white robe of her own, Taliesin felt as proud as if he himself had coached her.

It only occurred to him at the court feast following this ritual—for, as was customary with new bards, Cerys had been pressed to stay and celebrate—how very attractive she was. Tall for a woman, she possessed a slim intensity that lit her face with its high cheekbones and gray-green eyes. Why, he wondered, had he not noticed these things sooner? Or had he been aware of them all along? He was glad he had not been conscious of them while the young woman was taking her exams. Taliesin had too much integrity to be comfortable ogling a candidate he was supposed to be judging on her intellect. Indeed, it troubled him not a little that, earlier in the day, he had been full of fine intentions about honoring female scholarship and, by nightfall, he was gazing at this girl's lissome curves like any old goat for whom women were merely bodies to mate with. Well, perhaps he was being a bit harsh on himself. That he was bothered about his reactions to Cerys surely made him more enlightened than your average cloddish cantrev lord.

Startled, Taliesin realized that someone was saying his name. He looked up from his place at the table, to see that, while he had been thinking about her, Cerys herself had come to stand beside him. Curtseying deeply, she thanked him for his help that day and turned to leave the Great Hall. He called her back.

"Where to next?" he asked. "What do you plan to do now that you are well and truly a bard?"

Cerys smiled, a small smile that seemed to conceal a joke known only to herself. Respectfully, though, she answered, "I have a project, sir, that I have long yearned to undertake. Now, I may finally do so."

He was about to ask her what this project was when a voice broke in. The bard who had mopped his eyes at the end of Cerys's song, a kindly sort with round face and enthusiastic mien, was sitting to Taliesin's right; hearing Cerys's words, he beamed at her.

"Lady Cerys!" he exclaimed. "May I congratulate you on your splendid performance? You had me bawling like a baby, you know, by the end of that song. May we hope"—he looked at her encouragingly—"you will stay on at Caer Dathyl? As you know, we have a large community of bards here, including some of the best and brightest rising stars. We would welcome you among them, wouldn't we, Taliesin?" He turned to the Chief Bard eagerly. Taliesin nodded. The other bard went on. "You know, Taliesin here has even been kind enough to give tutorials in languages to some of the more promising new prospects, so they can read texts that have not yet been translated. You, of course, are well versed in your languages—but everyone can learn something more, can't they? We would be glad," he continued, "to have you stay here to write more of your marvelous songs. Surely you will also record them for our libraries?"

He said all this very quickly. At the conclusion of his speech, Cerys felt breathless herself, if frankly touched. Given rampant prejudices against intellectual women, she was more grateful than she could say for this kindly old man's attempts to make her feel at home in the bardic world. Not wishing to offend, she chose her next words carefully.

"I cannot tell you how deeply I appreciate your offer," she said, smiling at the round-faced bard. "I have already been made to feel very welcome here, and I will consider returning to Caer Dathyl when I have completed the task I am about to undertake. It may be some time before I can come back, but I think I would like to. It would be better," she added wistfully, "than returning to an old house of which I am the sole occupant." As if reluctant to sound self-pitying, she smiled again. "For now, I bid you farewell and render thanks for your kindness." She curtseyed again, and left the Great Hall.

Both men watched her leave with regret. Although he firmly stowed his more complicated thoughts about the young bard in the back of his brain, Taliesin felt unusually depressed in the days following Cerys's departure. It did not help his mood when, at the week's end, a new candidate for initiation arrived and, upon entering the examination room, promptly threw up at the Chief Bard's feet.


	2. Cerys in Love

Ch. 2: Cerys in Love

Exiting the cantrev hall from the scullery door—as befit a wandering nobody of a bard—Cerys hitched her harp more securely on her shoulder. It was a beautiful fall day, perfect for breathing crisp outdoor air. Now that she was no longer burdened with skirts, Cerys found it exhilarating to stride along freely, her long slim limbs encased in man's leggings.

Cerys was glad no one had asked her what she intended to do after passing her bardic exams. She was too honest to lie, and the truth could well have scandalized her questioners. Having become a bard, though, Cerys was not about to be debarred from doing what most bards did—wandering the countryside, singing for their supper and enjoying the footloose life. True, not all bards lived thus, but, as far as Cerys was concerned, the the roving existence was one of the glories of the bardic calling. One could thus see Prydain from end to end (bypassing Annuvin, of course). And—most precious gift for one born female—one could expand one's horizons beyond a narrow sphere, an important task for a poet who wished to write about the variety of human experience. No, Cerys was not about to give up this opportunity because conventional types considered it hopelessly depraved for a woman to travel alone without escort.

So here she was, hair cut short, in male disguise. She had worried, of course, whether she could pull off the act. She was slim-hipped enough to pass muster, and being tall for a woman didn't hurt either. To be doubly sure, though, she had carefully gone over the details of her costume with her best friend Rhiangar, whose family lived near Cerys's ancient manor. Particularly after her parents died, Cerys cherished Rhiangar's friendship, for the girl would often invite her lonely neighbor to a lively house in which she was the sole daughter among five rough-and-tumble sons. Returning in triumph from her bardic exams, Cerys immediately conferred with Rhiangar, who had long been aware of her friend's plan to pose as a wandering bard. Given her daily experience with the male population, Rhiangar was well suited to act as coach on male mannerisms and to make sure Cerys looked the part. Tossing her long black hair back from her face, blue eyes shining with amusement, Rhiangar made Cerys stand in front of her dressed in her boy's outfit while she considered the fine points.

There were both deletions and additions. Binding Cerys's breasts tightly with linen strips—"good you're not big-bosomed"—Rhiangar also thought it prudent to add padding in other places.

"You need to look like you've got something between your legs," she explained matter-of-factly. She regarded her friend severely. "Really, Cerys, if you're going to blush at comments like that you'd better think twice about this whole venture."

"Speaking of what lies between men's legs," Rhiangar continued after providing the requisite padding for her red-faced friend, "I'm worried about what could happen to you if you're found out. Honestly, Cerys, this may be a lark for you, but have you really thought about what beasts men can be? I'm not just talking about the Huntsmen of Annuvin here. You've heard how there are warriors who rape women after battle. Any man who caught you out—be he groom or cantrev lord—would probably think you no better than you should be and count it nothing to force himself on you. What do you have in mind if that's about to happen? Don't tell me your sole plan is to run for dear life. It's a good idea, I admit, but not always practical."

In answer Cerys reached a hand to her belt and withdrew a small dagger. "How's this for a strategy?" she asked.

"Do you know how to use it?" Rhiangar countered.

"Of course I know how to use it," said Cerys. "You don't think my father would have given it to me and not taught me how to use it, do you? I'm not enthralled by the prospect of carving someone up, but if he came at me in the way you said I'm sure I'd manage." When her friend still looked troubled, she returned the knife to its sheath, smiling. "If it makes you feel better, I've got another weapon." She pointed downward.

"The floor?" asked Rhiangar, bewildered.

"No, silly," laughed Cerys, "my feet. When I reached womanhood my father took me out to the straw figure he used for archery practice. He showed me how to kick a man to ensure he couldn't run after me very fast. Come to think of it," she mused, "it should be a lot easier to kick without skirts."

Rhiangar hooted. "Well," she admitted, "you've set my mind somewhat at ease. But please be careful, Cerys."

They also experimented with fake beards. "You don't want people wondering why you don't have one," Rhiangar said. "I mean, you look very young and all, but you should be sprouting some stubble. I can't imagine that wandering bards have that many opportunities to shave. It's all right if your beard is straggly—that's part of being young—but you've got to have _some_ facial hair."

They finally hit upon a plan of plucking coarse brown hairs from a horse hide in Rhiangar's house and fixing a few on Cerys's face with gum, including a sprinkling on her upper lip.

"I'm going to give you a lot of these things in a pouch along with more gum," said Rhiangar. "If you run out, sneak into a paddock at night and replenish your stock. Of course, a real live horse wouldn't like that, would it? You'd probably get kicked. Maybe you'd just better come home at that point."

Despite Rhiangar's worries, things went more smoothly than even Cerys at her most optimistic could have hoped. Since she generally only stayed overnight when she played at a residence, and moreover her performances took place in torch-lit Great Halls or on the shadowy hearths of humbler dwellings, there was less chance of someone getting a closer look than might otherwise have been the case. Cerys was most concerned about the servants in the great houses, particularly as she ate with them in the kitchen and shared their quarters when she wasn't camped in the stables. She had to be very careful about getting dressed or undressed, or about anything relating to calls of nature. Still, she passed for bashful, and again the brevity of her stays was a help.

She had another strategy, too, that proved quite useful: singing bawdy songs. She didn't, of course, know enough _really_ obscene ones, and she never would have sung anything that portrayed women as meat for male appetites. Yet she'd learned just enough mildly off-color ballads to do the trick. Rhiangar had been right to distrust men's impulses where women were concerned. But, Cerys thought, her friend hadn't taken into account the extent to which men, even rough ones, placed women on a pedestal of ignorant purity. Burly cantrev lords apparently thought no woman would possibly know about—or at least _talk _about—the seamier side of fleshly experience. To them, Cerys's few nudge-and-a-wink lyrics were indisputable proof that she was, in fact, one of the boys.

And so Cerys experienced unimaginable freedoms for a woman, especially a gently-born one. No cumbersome skirts to trip over. No long tresses to detangle. (How lightly her cropped head sat on her shoulders!) And, most gloriously of all, no one to stop her from going wherever she pleased. And so she saw sights that, normally, she would never have seen. She saw spring fields at dawn, the rising sun gilding the already-golden hue of just-sprouting crops. She saw hills coming to meet her as she walked to their summits and recede as she descended again. On nights she was not staying in human habitation, she watched the rising moon transfigure the greensward to silver. She heard birds singing as she strode along forest paths, and if she stood still could catch glimpses of woodland creatures venturing shyly from their tree-shaded abodes.

And she sang. Not only for others, but for herself as she walked along. She had carefully stowed a small ink bottle, quill, and parchment in her pack, and, writing in the tiniest letters to make her supplies last as long as possible, she recorded an efflorescence of new compositions, working and reworking them whenever she had a chance and trying them out on her audiences.

True, there were hard times as well. It wasn't always pleasant to sleep outdoors, which she often had to do between houses to perform in. When it rained she was soaked to the bone. Indoors the accommodations were not always the best, either—hard pallets or smelly clumps of straw in ill-kept stables. Not all of those who requested her services rewarded her generously, and she had her share of stale crusts for supper. Still, Cerys felt the benefits of her position far outweighed the difficulties, and her youthful love of adventure enabled her to see the wry side of the challenges she encountered.

But, she reflected on this bracing fall day as she stopped to eat a midday meal beneath a tree, winter was coming, and the barding and wandering season would soon be over. Biting into a crisp apple, she reflected that it was time to go home. Of course, "home" was a difficult term to define just now. She had to visit Rhiangar and regale her friend with her adventures, but after that she had little desire to stay on at the empty, dreary family seat. No, increasingly "home" meant Caer Dathyl. She had, after all, been offered a place there by that kindly old bard following her examinations., and a community of like-minded intellectuals was surely enticing. Yet, to be perfectly honest—she winced ruefully—it was not only these things that drew her irresistibly to the castle in the north.

It was Taliesin.

At first, Cerys had dismissed as a girlish crush the thoughts of the Chief Bard that intruded upon her consciousness once she embarked on the wandering life. It was, after all, not surprising for her to feel this way. Even before she had met him Taliesin had been her hero, and she had memorized much of his poetry, a model for her own as it included not only traditional battle lays but utterances in an innovative personal voice. And when she finally met Taliesin, he treated her first and foremost as a bard rather than as a woman, encouraging and supporting her in her efforts to break into the male intellectual enclave. Especially given he was younger and handsomer than she'd expected, surely it was not strange that she should moon over memories of his gray eyes? Surely it was not astonishing she'd started having unmaidenly dreams about him, dreams from which she awoke blushing furiously or tried desperately to reenter by going back to sleep?

Well, Cerys had to admit it was hard to ascribe those dreams to girlish hero worship. And—to do justice to the complexity of her feelings—she realized too that her attraction to Taliesin was not just of the body but of the mind, a yearning for an intellectual kindred spirit. Moreover, she simply found herself drawn to _him_, to his distinctive wry and kindly personality. At the feast following her exams she had watched him from a distance in his place among members of the bardic council. It struck her how little he presumed upon his status, even though he sat near the High King himself. Taliesin's most characteristic expression was the gentlest of smiles, a faint light of laughter in his eyes. She got the distinct impression that, shrewdly as he spotted the foibles of those around him, he was affectionately tolerant of them and laughed at himself as much as anybody. And for that as much as anything she had come to love him.

Yes, love him. Now what was she going to do about it?

As she sat under the tree where she'd eaten her meal, gazing at the brilliant fall leaves, she came up with the answer. The round-faced bard had mentioned that Taliesin sometimes gave lessons in arcane languages to young scholars. Why shouldn't she ask him to tutor her? That way she could not only be near him but test out both his feelings and her own. If her feelings were him were a passing girlish phase, she would surely realize this. If he seemed unwilling to think of her in the way she thought of him, she could either steel herself to broach the subject or retreat. At least she'd have had the matchless opportunity to hone her skills with the greatest scholar of the age, and, if nothing else, that was worth taking advantage of.

And so, checking to make sure she knew in which direction she was headed, she packed away the remains of her meal, stood up, and started walking due north.

_Notes: I hope no one is offended that this chapter is more risqué than anything I've written thus far. It seemed hard for me to believe, though, that Cerys would plan to pass as male and ignore the nitty-gritty details, not to mention the ever-present threat of sexual violence._

_Of course, since the Prydain series targets a youthful audience (and originally a young audience of a sedater age) sexual violence is never explicitly mentioned. It is left for adults to intuit that the Huntsmen of Annuvin can't be any too scrupulous about women's honor, and, for that matter, not all warriors would be as chivalrous as Lord Gwydion. The exception to the silence about sexual violence is the scene in The High King in which the captive Eilonwy is threatened with gang rape by the outlaw Dorath and his obnoxious crew. Mind you, the word "rape" is never used, but it is painfully clear from the context what's at stake. I tend to be a pacifist, but I can't get too fussed (as the British would say) that wolves rip out the throats of Dorath and Co. before they do any harm._

_Another note, this time on origins: As a scholar, I think a lot about literary influence—the impact of one text on another. Our imaginations are shaped by the imaginations of those before us, whose visions we assimilate into our own. Hence, I am always aware of the amalgam of sources that have helped me bring Cerys into being. As the title of both my fic and of this chapter suggests, an inspiration for my plot is the splendid film Shakespeare in Love, starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Joseph Fiennes. My representation of Cerys in male attire is influenced by Paltrow's character Viola de Lessups, who satisfies her desire to be an actor by posing as Thomas Kent. In the process of escaping the bounds of female convention, she falls in love with her favorite poet. Sound familiar?_

_And, for that matter, Cerys is a descendent not only from Viola/Thomas Kent but that character's predecessors, the enterprising cross-dressing girls of Shakespearean comedy and romance, Viola of Twelfth Night, Rosalind of As You Like It, and Imogen of Cymbeline. Let's also not forget our Prydainian cross-dresser, the Princess Eilonwy, who wears male garb for much of The High King. As for intellectual precursors, Cerys owes something to my favorite Brainy Female from a Fantasy Series, Hermione Granger of the Harry Potter series. (J. K. Rowling fans will hear in Cerys's concerns she's made an error in rune translation during her bardic exams echoes of Hermione's fretting over mistranslating the rune "ehwaz" when she takes O.W. L.s.) As far as Cerys's musical style is concerned, I've imagined her from the start as a Prydainian Loreena McKennitt. Coincidentally, just before I wrote chapter one I had the good fortune to hear a sampler CD that included "Penelope's Song" from McKennitt's forthcoming album An Ancient Muse. After that it was much easier to envision the heartmelting beauty of the song Cerys sings at the end of her bardic exams._


	3. Wit's End

Ch. 3: Wit's End

He was at his wit's end.

Gifted with the self-deprecating humor which Cerys had attributed to him, Taliesin found it quite funny that someone reputed to have more than the average share of wits was in danger of losing them all.

His sanity too, for that matter.

He glanced down the table at Cerys, who was placidly working on a knotty rune translation. Her hair, while still short, was beginning to grow out again, and fine tendrils lay along the back of her neck as she bent over the parchment.

He hastily looked away.

It was becoming unbearable, having her near him like this. He could never express his feelings for her in this context. If he'd been uncomfortable noting Cerys's attractions following her bardic exams, how much more unthinkable was it for him to make advances to someone under his tutelage. His conviction sprang not so much from a gallant concern for women as from something rarer in Taliesin's culture, a respect for their minds. For Taliesin, the idea of reducing a prodigy like Cerys to a body ripe for seduction was intolerable. Sooner than betray the trust she had placed in him as her instructor, he would leap out the window and roll in the snow to cool his ardor.

Now what would Cerys make of _that_?

Presumably she had no idea what was going through his head.

It had not always been thus. Before she had turned up that day at his study door, humbly requesting extra lessons, he had dreamed of presenting his suit to her like any other wooer.

So how, exactly, had he gotten himself into this mess?

He thought back to the evening several months ago when he first became aware of Cerys's return to Caer Dathyl. Sitting at dinner in the Great Hall next to Hywel—the crotchety bard who had complained when Cerys performed her own song during her exams—Taliesin heard the older man snort indignantly.

"Outrageous!" Hywel muttered.

"What is outrageous?" Taliesin asked, stopping himself from adding "this time." Hywel was a fine scholar and, when you got beneath the prickly surface, not a bad fellow. But he did have the unfortunate tendency to complain constantly how morals were going to the dogs—and to explain in excruciating detail precisely how.

"_She's_ outrageous," Hywel explained in shocked tones.

"Who?" asked Taliesin, refraining from rolling his eyes.

"Her." Hywel jerked his chin in the direction of the entrance to the Great Hall. Looking that way, Taliesin felt his stomach flop unnervingly. Cerys had just entered, speaking animatedly to a young woman at her side. She took a seat at the far end of the table next to her friend. Glancing up and meeting Taliesin's eye, she smiled.

"Look at her hair," Hywel sniffed.

"Hywel, my friend," Taliesin said, tearing his eyes from Cerys with difficulty, "what quarrel could you possibly have with her hair?"

"She's cut it all off, for one thing," Hywel muttered. Sure enough, Cerys's hair, which Taliesin had first assumed was in a braid, was cropped short, coming just past her ears.

"I had no idea," Taliesin smiled, "that you found long hair in women so attractive."

"Don't you know, man," Hywel grouched, "she chopped it off so she could roam the countryside dressed as a male bard?"

"Enterprising," murmured Taliesin.

"Enterprising!" snorted Hywel. "If you ask me, she's no better than she should be. What decent woman pretends to be a man so she can wander off on her own?"

"What would you have her do?" Taliesin asked. "Wear a skirt and subject herself to outrage?"

"And why," replied Hywel, "does she have to be a wandering bard to begin with? She's a _woman_, for goodness' sake."

"And also a bard," pointed out Taliesin mildly, though his temper was rising. "It does not seem unreasonable for her to do what other bards do."

"You take her part," said Hywel accusingly. "You, the Chief Bard, take the part of a woman who acts like a slut!"

Normally an equable type, Taliesin flushed with anger. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, though unmistakably authoritative.

"Hywel," he said, "You know well that those who sling mud end up with dirty hands themselves."

Muttering to himself, Hywel left the table. Taliesin sighed, but could not be much bothered by his hidebound colleague. His eyes strayed back to Cerys. While a staid matron several seats down glared, purse-lipped, at her hair, she was laughing at something her friend had said. Cerys did not seem aware of the woman's gaze, but Taliesin would be much surprised if she were ignorant of the gossip about her. More than ever he admired her spirit.

And, indeed, he did more than admire her. When she had left the castle following her exams, he had frequently found himself thinking about her. He recalled the way her hands moved when she spoke of something that excited her, and he yearned to hear again the breathtaking beauty of her songs. Was it possible, he asked himself as fall approached, that he had finally found the intellectual equal for whom he'd longed so many years? Yet he still could not acknowledge the depth of his feelings. He always ended up telling himself she was a reminder of what might have been had he met her in his youth.

And yet now, watching her radiate a joyous energy that charged the air around her, he realized two momentous things.

First: he loved her. She was a reminder not of what might have been but of what was still possible.

Second: there was no earthly reason he should not tell her so. The difference in their ages meant nothing if they were as well-matched as he suspected.

So he left the Great Hall considerably cheered. The next day he was glad he did not suddenly become obsessed with his appearance, trying on smart new clothes in an attempt to look younger. No, he stuck to his usual plain garb, and forbore looking in a mirror. He did not want to play the old fool.

Later that day, he saw Cerys walking across the courtyard near the Hall of Lore. Before he could hail her, however, she was stopped by a young bard, one of the rising stars of the moment. He appeared to introduce himself and chatted with her a bit.

It was not jealousy that entered Taliesin's heart as he watched them together. He was too generous a man to succumb easily to envy. No, it was compunction that seized him as he saw Cerys smiling and laughing at her companion's words. Next to the handsome young man she looked more beautiful than ever. Were not these two well-matched? If not this bard, surely some other young man would woo Cerys, and why should she not prefer someone her own age to Taliesin, for all that he was Chief Bard?

And so he had been both depressed and stricken by indecision. On the one hand, he was now most uncomfortably aware of his age. On the other hand, he wondered if he should not at least get to know Cerys better before he gave up his plan of courtship.

Get to know her better—well, he had at least been doing that since she'd requested the lessons, showing no signs she wished for anything other than language instruction. Still, when he wasn't about to jump out of his skin with frustrated desire, he rejoiced at the intellectual companionship that quickly developed between them. She had an extraordinarily subtle and flexible mind, and increasingly they strayed onto topics other than translation—poetry, philosophy, musical composition. Not that grammar and vocabulary were by any means boring. Both Taliesin and Cerys particularly enjoyed working with the more arcane runes, although the subject was becoming ever hotter to handle. Taliesin didn't know what it was about runes, but after an hour or two translating them with her he felt more than ever in need of rolling around in the snow to keep from revealing his passion.

"Sir?"

Returning to the present with a start, he realized belatedly that Cerys was speaking to him. "I beg your pardon," he said hastily. "I have been wool-gathering."

"Should I leave now, sir?" she asked quietly. "I have taken up much of your time."

"No," he smiled. "I have a question for you first." Best drag himself back to the present. And, while he should have been glad of an opportunity to let her go and spare himself the strain of this increasingly unbearable situation, there was indeed something he wanted to ask her, something that had more to do with their shared interests than his inconvenient feelings. "Have you written any songs since your bardic exams?"

"Yes," she told him, startled by this change in topic. "I wrote a good many while I . . . " Here she paused, hesitating. He had never before seen her embarrassed.

"While you wandered the countryside?" he asked gently. She seemed relieved he already knew.

"You'd heard, then," she said.

"Yes," he admitted. "News does get around."

She shook her head ruefully. "I'm sure you also heard a great deal about how shameless I was, dressing like a man. In fact," she added, an uncharacteristic note of bitterness creeping into her voice, "I daresay some people think me quite the slut."

The word hung raw and ugly on the air. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first.

"I know, you see," she told him simply. "One of my friends heard that bard—what's his name? Hywel?—complaining loudly to all who would listen about my lack of womanly modesty, not to mention maidenly virtue. I'm sure it's not an isolated reaction."

"I am sorry," he told her. She looked vaguely amused.

"What have you to be sorry about?" she asked. "You are not responsible for what people say around here."

"Well, I can't help thinking that in some sense I am," he explained gravely. "I have tried to create a community among our bards based on respect and trust. It not only grieves me when some resort to backstabbing, it makes me feel, too, that I have failed."

The expression on her face was hard to read. She paused, then asked quietly, "Do you approve of my actions?"

He regarded her closely. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I respect your judgment," she said. "Because it is easy to dismiss what others say as evidence of their silly prejudices about women with brains. With you, it's different. If you had any criticisms of my choices, I should take them more seriously."

He nodded, then spoke gently. "Were I your father or brother" (Belin! Why remind himself he could be the former?) "I should worry dreadfully about you traveling alone and unprotected like that. I should rejoice, though," he added, smiling, "that you had the good sense to dress as a man and so forestall the worst kinds of insult to which your sex, alas, is vulnerable. And," he said firmly, "Worry is not the same as disapproval. Parents worry when their children are about to leave the nest." (Oh, why could he not get away from these familial metaphors?) "Yet it is natural and appropriate that the young find their own way. You have become a bard; you have as much right as a man to live like a bard, especially if that life nourishes your remarkable talents."

He stopped, alarmed. Her eyes brimming, she sniffed loudly, then turned away to compose herself. He waited, not sure what to do.

"Forgive me," she said finally, turning back and dabbing furiously at her eyes. "I've been hearing all this ugliness, having matrons glare at me and girls snicker at my short hair. It's not that everyone disapproves, but I've not yet heard anyone really _approve_ of my actions either. It just—well, it just struck me, that's all. And it does mean a great deal coming from you," she concluded.

"You do mind, then," he said. When she looked at him, he explained. "It's easy to think that those ahead of their time ignore the petty insults others sling at them. Yet even the bravest"—he nodded in her direction—"cannot help minding what others say. It is a sign not of weakness but of being human."

She looked down at the table, evidently trying hard not to cry again. He stood up decisively.

"Let us break for today," he announced. "Another day, perhaps, I shall hear those new songs."

That evening, he finally realized that things had to change. His conversation with Cerys had brought home to him as never before the similarities between them. They were both bold, unorthodox, and wily in steering a deft path around other people's prejudices. But he was a man, and hence protected far more than she from ostracism and scandal. Her determination in the face of such conditions made her all the more admirable. And lovable.

He did love her devotedly, distractedly. And he could not continue in a situation where he was unable to speak without betraying a trust. Maybe he was too old for her. But the only way he could find out would be to end the lessons—and then see what happened.

He slept better that night than he had for some time. The next morning he entered his study resolutely, waiting for her to appear. When she did, he was about to speak, then realized she was already talking.

Words like "infinitely grateful" and "cannot possibly take up more of your time" floated in his direction. _She_ was breaking off the lessons, then! At first he felt a tremendous sense of relief—followed by a crashing, irrational disappointment that they would no longer work together on rune translations in this book-lined room.

He had no idea what to say.

Cerys, for her part, remembered the day before. She had glanced up to find him looking at her, and before he could hide the expression on his face she had seen its naked desire, a yearning so intense she could scarce conceal the joy that shot through her being. He cared, then. She had spotted other signs, other symptoms—signs always covered up at once by a mask of careful detachment. Of course he would not exploit his role as teacher in order to exploit her. Would she love him as she did if she thought he would? But she had to acknowledge she was placing him in an intolerable situation, and herself as well. Neither could speak their hearts freely as things were. No, it was time to move on. And now, affectionately viewing the comically confused expression on his face, she realized that the moment had come for her to make the first move.

Smiling, she stepped forward.

A happy half hour later, Cerys and Taliesin were sitting side by side on a bench in the study, holding hands. Both looked dazed. Cerys, it was true, seemed the most firmly moored to earth. She kept shooting Taliesin amused, fondly exasperated glances. In contrast, he looked like a man who had been hit on the head by a heavy object, then discovered it was a pot of gold.

"I would ask why you waited to speak," she said, "except I know. You were, of course, too honorable to do otherwise."

"I feared you would think me an old lecher," he murmured. "And besides, it wasn't—"

"Right, I know," she finished for him. "You do realize that's one reason I love you? You are so careful of other people's feelings, so scrupulous Most men would have thought nothing of fondling me while I pored over the dictionary."

"I should hope," he replied, mildly testy, "that I am not like most men."

"Oh, you're not," she assured him happily. "Quite one of a kind, really."

"What do we do now?" he asked her.

"We get married, of course," she declared. "After all, you need to make an honest woman of me."

They were nearly weeping with laughter when a knock sounded at the door. Before Taliesin could reply, Enlli, the round-faced old bard who had been so kind to Cerys after her exams, entered, looking distracted.

"Taliesin," he said, "Do you remember that book I lent you a month ago . . . "

He suddenly realized what he was seeing, Cerys and the Chief Bard holding hands, beaming. A glow of glad comprehension lit his face.

"Lady Cerys!" he cried, delighted. "May I assume that you will be staying on here at Caer Dathyl?"

"Oh yes," replied Cerys, smiling at Taliesin. "Yes, you most certainly may."

_I hope to return with several more of these tales when possible. I have two more in the hopper—one about Taliesin and Cerys, the other moving ahead to the second generation of Adaon and Arianllyn (though Taliesin will appear in that one too, as I apparently can't get away from him). As I have started to teach again, I can't tell you when exactly these stories will appear. I shall, however, work on them as much as possible—if "work" is the word for something that gives me so much joy._

_Speaking of teaching, you can tell I'm an academic, can't you? Who else would fantasize about people being turned on to each other while translating ancient runes? And yet—since as an academic I've seen my fair share of sexual harrassment cases—I would be most remiss not to warn the young women who read this that, while we all have had our crushes on our teachers, if he comes on to you while he's teaching you, dear, he is—unlike Taliesin—no gentleman. Probably, in fact, he deserves a kick of the sort Cerys mentions in ch. 2, though it's more prudent to report any unethical dealings to your principal or Dean. Just wanted to make sure that message was out there. End of lesson._

_A bit more on the name "Cerys," since CompanionWanderer pointed out in her review of ch. 2 that there's a fantasy series in which Taliesin is married to a woman named "Charis," which would be pronounced much like the name of my character. And here I thought I was being original! (Wait—I'm writing fanfiction and I'm talking about being original?) I hadn't heard of that series, though it does sound worth a look. I found the name Cerys online, in a list of Welsh names for women, and chose it because it means "love," which struck me as the right symbolism for my character (and underscores a major theme in the whole Prydain series as well). As the Welsh initial "c" is pronounced like a "k" in English, "Cerys" sounds like "KERR-iss." _

_By the way, if you're writing Prydain fanfiction and want names for original characters, do have a look at Welsh Names for Children, by Heini Gruffudd, a book I happed upon while I was writing my first fic. It's enormous fun, and a real treasure-trove._


End file.
